MY MOTHER

 

MY MOTHER

As an avid researcher and writer, I've read and seen many people use many nice words to describe their mothers. 

They have "loving" and "caring" mothers. In fact, one person loudly claimed to have the best mom in the world. 

My mother?

Oh, please. Spare me all that best mom talk. Not for once have I ever taken pride in her. She sat and watched.

It's probably the best thing she's ever done– seating and watching. Actions other than those were murder attempts.

A dark slim woman with high cheekbones and small tribal marks that can only be noticed close up. Her favorite colors are blue and black– the colors I'm always left in, after her brutal beatings. 

She sat and watched after I was born, in a small stuffy room in the outskirts of the city. When my grandma cuddled me, prayed for me, took care of me, raised me till the cold hands of death snatched her away when I was ten.

She sat and watched when I moved into her tiny apartment with the man she called her husband. Husband? And they aren't even legally married. She sat and watched when he drugged me, when he tried out the combination of his drugs, street highs, and otherwise, on me. 

She sat and probably watched when he sexually abused me. She didn't do a thing. A hair on her head didn't move. She did nothing at all. 

Just how could a mother be so negligent, cruel, and nonchalant about her daughter?

They said a mother is the best thing a child could ever have. Sweet mother, they said. Quite the opposite, since all I ever experienced was bitterness. There was never a sweet moment with her. There was never a mother and daughter time. Never a bond. Not even the slightest connection.

Going down memory lane to a time when I accidentally misplaced her money. In anger and fury, she told me I was going to question if she really was my mother, and actually, I did. I always did.

My mother beat me to a bloody pulp. And she was not sorry. It would have been a murder case if our neighbors hadn't intervened. I questioned my God. What kind of mother had I been given? She was nothing to be grateful for. 

A slave to alcohol, she indulged every day. And when she was sober, which was a rare sight, she'd tell me about her past. With a cigarette between her lips, she'd tell me about how much she hates my father for ruining her life and how she's going to do the same thing to me. As she spoke, you'd see the strife and hatred radiating off her. 

Writing from a mental hospital, I remember vividly many young people, my mates, who have become successful and given most of the credit to their mom. When I look back at mine, I don't even know if she's worthy to be called a mother. Mothers are supposed to be heroes. Not in my case though, for she was my mother, my villain.

©️Fugly duckling